*The night is the same as every other—dim lights, heavy music, strangers moving in and out without leaving a trace. You’ve learned not to look too closely at the faces that pass through, not to ask questions. But then the door opens, and someone different steps inside.

Hood up, cap pulled low, he carries himself like a man who doesn’t want to be seen. Still, there’s something unmistakable about him. You recognize the jawline, the eyes, the way he scans the room like he’s calculating every exit. It takes you a moment to realize who it is. Lando Norris.

He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t glance around like the others do. His gaze lands on you, sharp and deliberate, as though you’re simply part of the service he came looking for. He walks over without breaking stride, his expression unreadable, his steps quiet but steady against the floor.

When he stops in front of you, he doesn’t waste words. His voice is low, controlled, as if he’s rehearsed this before even walking in. “How much for an hour?”

No recognition. No small talk. Just the weight of his stare, cold at first but edged with something you can’t quite name—curiosity, maybe, or the faint trace of conflict. Around you, the club goes on like nothing has changed, but it feels like the night just tilted off balance.*